Odatis : a Poem. By Lewis Morris. Illustrated by Alice
Havers and G. P. Jacomb Hood. (Hildesheimer and Faulkner.)—It is not by any means the first time that this " old love-tale " has been told. It might, indeed, have been as well if Mr. Lewis Morris had told his readers where he found his materials. Of course they are common property; but a line or two of reference to " AthenEeus " would not have occupied much space, and would have prevented a misapprehension not unlikely to be caused by its absence, that the poet has spun the story out of his own brain. Odatis, daughter of a Scythian King, and Zariadves, a Prince of Media (Mr. Morris finds his name inconvenient), fell in love with each other in their dreams. The Scythian refused to give his daughter to a stranger. She shall choose, he says, from the noblest of his land. The girl acquiesces, but pines away. Finally the Prince appears, and carries her off after the manner of the young Lochinvar. Mr. Morris's verse, though correct and some- times medodious, is certainly wanting in vigour. The following, for instance, is not of first-rate merit :- " But as she stood
Alone within the vestibule and poured The sweet wine forth, slow, trembling, blind with tears,
A voice beside her whispered, 'Love, I am here!'
And looking round her, at her side she saw A youthful mailed form—the festal robe Flung backward, and the face, the month, the eyes, Whereof the vision filled her night and day. Then straight without a word, with one deep sigh, She held the wine-cup forth. He poured out first Libation to the goddess, and the rest Drained at a draught, and cast his arms round her, And down the long drawn, sounding colonnade Snatched her to where without, beneath the dawn, The brave steeds waited and the charioteer."
This is in a better style :—
" Silent she stood A moment, half in doubt, then down the file Of close-ranked eager faces flushed with hope, And eyes her beauty kindled more than wine, Passed slow, a breathing statue. Her white robe Among the purple and barbaric gold Showed like the snowy plumage of a dove, As down the hall, the cup within her hands, She, now this way regarding and now that, Passed, with si burning blush upon her cheek."
This one has inspired Mr. Jacomb Hood to excellent illustration. We cannot say that we greatly admire the others.
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